The days after blurred together.

Priests of Rokhan arrived first. They walked the ruined paths, marked the whole tragedy, and treated the wounded. Later came officials from Raias, scrolls in hand, recording testimonies that no one wanted to give but everyone felt obligated to provide.

What happened in Dheam was named quickly.

A tragedy, an unavoidable one.

The conflict was deemed resolved—by Gremory's Hero Party.

The words spread faster than the reconstruction.

Survivors gathered where they could, sharing food, and all relocating within Central. Tribes that had once refused to share ground now worked side by side, bound together by what they had lost rather than what they believed.

When they spoke to Gremory's Hero Party, it was with bowed heads and quiet gratitude.

Outsiders said they would have been wiped out without the Hero Party. Bloodmanes who claimed they only wanted peace said their hands would have been tainted with blood.

Both said peace, as fragile as it was, had been earned.

Raias acknowledged the outcome soon after.

A formal deed was issued. The intervention was deemed legitimate. Gremory's Hero Party had accomplished its first major achievement—another step forward along the Hero's Path.

Fritz Calder stood at the center of it all.

He helped clear rubble. He listened to grievances. He carried supplies between camps without complaint. When people spoke of hope, they spoke his name.

When Dheam spoke of the Hero's Path, he became its image.

And Ryn…he watched from a distance, not from grief—rather, from uncertainty.

He stopped joining the rebuilding efforts after the first day. He stopped attending the discussions meant to decide Dheam's future.

Instead, he remained within the airship's planning room, charts and notes scattered across every available surface.

He replayed the decisions he had made over and over without emotion, mapping alternatives that no longer mattered.

Ryn wasn't mourning what had happened. The years of Evernight had taught him that mourning wouldn't fix anything.

He was preparing so it would never happen again.

The airship's upper corridor was quiet.

Most of the crew had been dismissed for the night, sent below to rest or help with transport. Only the low hum of the engines remained.

Amelia stopped in front of the planning room.

Light bled through the seam beneath the door—shadows shifted inside, restlessly moving.

She raised her hand.

Stopped.

For a moment, she said nothing. No knock or call for permission. Just stood there, fingers hovering inches from the metal, as if weighing whether she had the right to enter at all.

Amelia lowered her hand.

Then, after a breath she did not realize she was holding, she pushed the door open anyway.

Ryn stood center of the room.

His coat was still on, loosened but never removed. His hair hung out of place, the dark purple strands dulled under lamplight. One sleeve had been pushed up, as if he had intended to roll it properly and never followed through.

Amelia's eyes moved before she did.

An untouched plate sat near the edge of the table, food long gone cold. A cup beside it remained full, not even a single sip was taken. Another cup, empty, had been pushed aside, forgotten rather than finished.

Ryn didn't turn when she entered.

His attention remained on the papers in his hands, eyes moving with a steady, mechanical focus that never lingered in one place for long. He shifted his weight once, then again, favoring the same leg both times.

Amelia took it all in.

Neglect.

She closed the door behind her without a sound.

"Don't blame yourself."

The words came quietly, without preamble.

Ryn's hand paused over the papers.

He didn't look up. For a moment, it seemed as though he hadn't heard her at all.

Then he resumed working.

Amelia stepped closer. The light caught the side of his face.

Eyebags hung heavily, lines appeared on his forehead where it'd been scrunched over and over again.

"The tower was already falling, Ryn," she said.

"We—no. You—managed to catch what pieces you could."

This time, he exhaled.

Slowly.

"I know."

He set the papers down carefully. Then he turned to face her.

There was no anger or denial, only pressure remained.

"But I could've caught more."

After a moment of silence, he turned back to the table.

"How's Fritz?"

Amelia immediately knew what he was asking about. Ryn wasn't wondering about his well-being or his mental state at all.

"He's… getting the recognition," she said. "The tribes trust him. Raias does too. They're already talking about Dheam as proof the Path works."

Ryn nodded, eyes already moving over another page.

"Good," he said. "We need it."

Amelia didn't answer right away.

Instead, she watched him…how his hands never stopped moving, how his gaze darted around, over and over again.

"…And you?" she asked. "Are you—"

"I'm fine."

The interruption was immediate.

Ryn didn't look at her as he said it, already reaching for another chart, another line to redraw.

"I just need time."

Amelia didn't argue.

Instead, she walked past the table and let herself fall onto the narrow couch along the wall, any semblance of her noble elegance long gone.

For a while, she said nothing.

Ryn kept working.

They shared the room without looking at each other.

Minutes passed like that. Maybe longer. Time didn't matter much in rooms like this.

Amelia spoke without turning her head.

"…Do you think," she said quietly, "there was ever a way…have a happy ending?"

Ryn's hand slowed.

She went on before he could answer.

"I keep replaying it," she said. "Every choice. Every moment where we could've stopped. Could've done something different."

A pause.

"And every version still ends with someone paying the price."

Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of the couch.

"I know what everyone's saying," she continued.

"That it was inevitable. That it could've been worse. That we did what we had to do."

Her voice wavered, thinning a bit.

"But I keep wondering if there was ever a path where no one had to call it a tragedy at all."

Ryn didn't answer her question.

The lanterns continued to hum, the airship engine still going on slowly, its hum filling in the silence.

After a long moment, Ryn stepped away from the table.

He crossed the room without a word and sat down on the couch beside her.

Amelia felt the shift in weight.

Before she could say anything, before she could even turn her head, his shoulders sagged.

Then, just like that, his breathing evened out.

Slow, deep, and unconscious.

He had fallen asleep.

Amelia froze, eyes widening slightly. She glanced at him from the corner of her vision, disbelief flickering across her face.

Ryn Eden Arctis, who never slept unless he decided to, had lost the fight the moment he stopped moving.

Carefully, she adjusted herself so he wouldn't slide, letting his shoulder rest against hers.

"So, even Captains get exhausted, huh?" she muttered under her breath.

Amelia stared at the far wall, listening to his breathing, and stayed right where she was.

For once, he deserved to rest.

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